Properties of the Force
by Voodoogator
Summary: As the Clone Wars rage, one clone troopers fate will reflect the ethical & legal struggle that threatens to tear the galaxy to pieces. For CT-3033 has a frightening secret. One that will shake the very foundations of the Republic.. and the Jedi Order. And force them to answer the questions posed by his very existence: Are clones Property of the Republic? Or Properties of the Force?
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

**Standing** in the dusty arena on Geonosis, Master Thain Dural gazed above the audience stands, into the burning Geonosis sun. He coughed roughly. Not only because of the dust being kicked up by the barren planet's winds, but also the smell of the dead. Seemingly unaffected by the breeze, it hung low to the ground. As if refusing to abandon the corpses that created them, the stench kept watch over the bodies, in defiance of the spirits that had already left them. It wasn't just the smell he was trying to avoid. It was the sight of so many dead Jedi that he really couldn't take any longer.

They lay strewn about everywhere, intermingled with the smashed remains of the very droids that had slain them. The chaos of it was almost too much to believe, even though he had seen it all for himself, first hand. Forcing himself to face reality until his mind excepted it, the Jedi dropped his eyes again to study the carnage surrounding him.

Off in the distance, he could hear that the fight went on.

But he remained.

With a hard blink to clear his vision, he finally let his sight fall upon the body that lay at his feet. Cold and covered with blaster burns, the sightless eyes of his apprentice stared right through him.

"You should never have been here," he softly admitted to her, to himself. "_I _should have not brought her here."

Reaching down, he delicately closed his padawan's accusing eyes. At least, they seemed to accuse him every time he looked at her once lovely, violet-skinned, now blistered and scarred face. Emotion almost overcame him. With great effort, he recited part of the Jedi Code... "There is no emotion, there is only peace."

The words of ancient wisdom now sounded hollow and trite to his ears.

Since peace would not find him in this place of death, he settled on a less comforting ideal... despair.

Taking his dead padawans broken lightsaber into his hand, the Jedi Master swore an ominous oath over her young, lifeless body...

"I will _never_ train another."

…...

**'Properties of the Force'**

by: 'voodoogator'

**Chapter1**

**Different**.. A-typical…Non-uniform…

...Unacceptable.

CT-3033 knew he was different.

He didn't know _why_ he was different, or _what _ was different about him, he just knew that he was _not_ the same as his brothers.. any of them. Each time, the realization sent cold shivers running up his spine. Because the one thing he _did_ know about being different was, that 'different' was _bad_.

Dubbed 'Trey' by his pod-brothers, CT-3033 was a clone. Born in gestation tanks on the rainy planet of Kamino, he and the others like him lived an assembly-line existence. Meals, sleep, and training all carefully scheduled and monitored by the Kaminoans who ran the facility that was his whole world. Under their piercing, intolerant gaze, every aspect of the clones' physical and mental traits were scrutinized to ensure adherence to the Clonemasters' very exacting standards.

Clones lived in constant fear being found 'defective' by the Kaminoan technicians. Units that failed meet up to the Clonemasters strict standards of conformity were taken away from their brothers to be 'reconditioned'. The few who returned were never the same. And none of those ever lasted very long in the fast-paced and deadly training that was the everyday existence for troopers produced to be the very _best_ soldiers to ever put on battle armor.

Besides the grey-skinned aliens who oversaw their manufacture, the only other beings the clones had contact with were their Mandalorian instructors…hard, often abusive men and women. Mostly human, with a few exceptions, who drilled the clones in the arts of war and survival.

Although some were rumored to have soft-spots for favored pupils, on the whole, these warriors were no more compassionate or forgiving of failure than the beings they worked for.

So Trey kept his concerns to himself. But always there was the fear.

That his non-conformities would be discovered. That they would come for him one night, and his squadmates would awaken the next training cycle to find CT-3033's cot empty. His fear was for them, as well. If he was found to be too non-regulative, his entire pod could be taken away. For their sakes, more than for his own, he would remain silent... and try his best to perform up to specs.

Or rather, _down_ to specs. He hated to think of himself as being 'better' than his brothers.. nor _any _clone for that matter...but he was.

Aside from the specially-enhanced ARCs, and of course, the downright unruly Null-ARCs... who reigned havoc across the entire facility; every clone was his brothers' equal.

To think of another clone as being 'less' than him filled him with disgust... and doubt.

Fear, his instructors had told him, could be useful. All beings felt fear, they'd told him so. It heightened the senses and sharpened the mind. It could be used to push your body long past its normal limits. But, it could also leave you paralyzed in the face of danger. Learning how to properly use your fear was often the key to victory... and survival.

Doubt, however, was a disease of the mind.

Doubt would cause all the negative effects of fear, but without the benefits. Fear could keep you alive, he'd been taught... but doubt could get you killed.

CT-3033 feared his doubts more than anything else. More than death, even more than being found to be 'different'. That was the worst thing about knowing he was not the same as the others... it filled him with doubt.

And those doubts gave further rise to his fears. That should have made it manageable.. he'd been trained to turn fear to his advantage. Instead, his fear thwarted any attempt to bring it into line.. like a untamable Null-ARC, refusing to obey its master.

Laying prone in his bunk, Trey raised up and swung his legs to the cold floor beneath him. The darkened artificial lighting of the berthing area told him it was not yet time to begin the day's training, but he could sleep no more. Standing, he made his way as quietly as possible to the communal refreshers at the end of the row of cots. Reaching the lavs, he turned the valve that released hot, steaming water, and splashed a handful on his face.

Lifting his eyes to the reflective surface above the sink, Trey stood for several moments breathing deeply, trying unsuccessfully to banish the thoughts that plagued him.

Would today be the day they found him out?

He swallowed, finding his mouth suddenly dry. Lifting another dose of water to his face, he sipped the tepid liquid, then splashed the remainder to his face again, running his clawed fingers through the turf of dark hair he, and all his brothers, sported... courtesy of their genetic-donor, Jango Fett. Seeing the exact replica of the Mandalorian warrior before him, Trey wondered if Jango himself had ever felt such fear. Catching his own eye in the mirror, he doubted it.

More doubts.

With a heavy sigh, he walked back to his bunk and lay awake waiting for dawn... fearful of the day ahead.

...


	2. Chapter 2

**_"Wise, accepting command of _****_this mysteriously_****_ created Clone Army, it may not have been..._**

**_ But necessary, at that moment... it was._**

**_ How we, as Jedi, accept the violation of all we believe in by doing so... I know not._**

**_ As lead into war, these cloned-beings, we do..._**

**_ Further into darkness, I fear, we ultimately lead ourselves... and the Force." _**

**_ (- Master Yoda, conversing with an unseen entity ) _**

**Chapt2**

** Blaster** fire sizzled over-head, as the harsh light of recon-flares bathed the battlefield in crimson and amber hues. Deep shadows caused by the glaring blazes danced dizzyingly across the cratered terrain. Muffled booms from detonators vibrated the ground and sent debris cascading down like rain, were underscored by the sharp reports of fired blasters... and accentuated by the agonized screams of fallen soldiers.

Amidst the chaos, Trey sat huddled tightly behind a portion of crumbled wall... using it for cover. The rest of his squad were likewise being pinned down by sniper shots fired from a higher position... courtesy of one of the Mandalorian training sergeants. This particular marksman had a love affair with Verpine shatterguns.

"Bug Guns", Trey'd heard another sergeant say in disgust. "Manufactured by bugs, thats why they break so easy."

Bugs or not, fragile or not, silently-fired death still pinged the ferro-crete behind him any time he tried to advance.

Unable to move forward without covering fire, he signaled for CT-3034... his brother, 'Quay'; to move up and give him the support he required. All he needed was a small window of opportunity, then Trey could finally try getting close enough to the sniper's nest to toss a sim-frag grenade, ending the threat... and the last major obstacle between them, and victory.

With an audible grunt and clattering of armor against the wall hiding them, Quay finally managed to fling himself across the tight alley that separated them... avoiding the projectiles being shot down at him. With his usual excitement, he announced to his teammate that he had, at last, joined the party.

"Never fear, Quay is here!", his pod-mate said over their helm-comm.

Without a word, Trey rested his rifle on his knees, and pointed out to his brother the sniper's location. Then, with his other hand, he signaled his intention to storm the loft and throw a detonator. Replying with an equally-silent 'Thumbs Up', Quay lifting his weapon, a standard-issue DC-15 ,or 'Decee' as it was called, over the rim of their shelter, and began spraying un-aimed bolts towards the distant perch.

When his clip was empty, he dropped back down on his haunches, expecting his squad-mate to have taken advantage of the tactics employed, and be long gone.

Only Trey hadn't moved.

Quay tapped the side of his brothers helmet to get his attention, but his brother didn't seem to acknowledge him at all. "Hey! Yoo-hoo, Coo-koo... Wakey-wakey! Hell-O-oo, ner vod... ?" Quay called playfully over the comm.

'Ner vod'..it was Mando for 'my brother'. Every clone was a brother, a near-identical twin, all produced from the same genetic code.

Inside their cocoon of white plastoid armor, clones were even harder to tell apart than when their identical faces were visible. The Kaminoans used only designation numbers when addressing them, and then only to differentiate between them. The cloners didn't care for how... or even, if.. their creations felt. Only that they performed to specs.

The clones themselves were more attuned to the slight variations in voice and body language that betrayed each others individuality. Spending every waking (and sleeping, and screaming, and sometimes even dying) moment within a clockwork, mirror-world, such as clones did, you quickly got to where you notice the little things.

A few of the drill sergeants could tell them apart, too. It spoke volumes about their attention to detail that any could spot the differences in the sea of commonality they were charged with. Some even knew their clone trainees by their assumed handles. While Trey didn't personally know the Verp-lover currently taking pot-shots at him and his mates very well, he'd heard enough about him to have enough sense not to provide him with an easy target. 'Skirata' he was called, though it was said his favorite trainees, the Nulls, referred to him as "Papa-Kal".

Trey wondered at the fatherly qualities of the man trying to kill him. "Must be what they call 'tough love'," he mused silently.

Again, his squad-mate tried to get his attention. "Hey, Trey! What's the matter with you? You've been acting barvy all day. C'mon, shift it, di'kut.. or you'll get us all sent back!"

'Di'kut'... more Mando-tongue.

Just what it meant, Trey wasn't sure, but it didn't sound like a compliment... all harsh, sharp, and gutteral tones... and it definitely wasn't used as one; not by the equally harsh, sharp, and gutteral Mandalorian drill instructors whom he'd heard say it. But Trey didn't take offense to being called.. whatever a di'kut was. Not this time, anyway. Although he couldn't see his brothers face, there was no mistaking the playfulness with which he'd delivered the insult.

Unlike 'di'kut', however, being 'sent back' was no insult... it was a serious threat. And the thing every clone feared most.

It wasn't a Mandalorian word, it was trooper-slang for: being 'reconditioned'.

And being 'reconditioned' was Kaminoan terminology for: scrambling your brains... or simply killing you, and throwing your 'defective' remains into an incinerator.

Trey tried to gather his thoughts with a shake of his head.

Only, Quay was right. He'd been filled with a strange feeling throughout the entire training session. The entire day, actually. His mind felt like it was receiving static from a faulty comm. His brother was also right that if he didn't get himself sorted out, he'd draw attention to himself... and that, he definitely didn't want.

This time, his fear became his ally and he was determined to use it to his advantage. But not yet. "Patience," the almost-heard voice within him seemed to say. "Rushing out now will only get them hurt.. or killed." His inner-voice was telling him that something _big_ was coming.. and coming _soon_.

Trey wasn't exactly sure WHAT was coming, but he resolved himself to be ready for it when it did.

"Okay, 'vode..." he called over the unit channel. "Lets show 'Papa Kal' that his precious Nulls aren't the only ones around here who can take him down!"

Trey smiled as his squads' voices confirmed their eagerness to accept the challenge of going up against the ultra-elite special-ops commandos. "Nothing," he thought, "drove a clone like a little competitiveness."

Before long, the inkling of anticipation flared into an almost overwhelming urge. The time, it seemed, had come.

"On my mark, Run-and-Gun," he ordered, slamming a fresh clip firmly into his Decee. "Charge that nest full speed... 'frags and 'flashers at the ready. Follow me in, assault pattern Vega..." Trey waited only long enough to take a deep breath of the cool, sterilized air provided by his Mark I combat-suits' recirculation systems, then sprang into action.

"GO!"

Sprinting across the uneven terrain, he and his brothers poured round after round into the shooter's niche. Twice, his unique internal warning system told him to duck, saving him from being scorched by a burning bolt from a repeating blaster. Crawling now from cover to cover, he positioned himself behind the base of a fallen column, next to a spot of open ground that granted the only access to his target. Heavy fire from the mounted E-web repeaters shook the ground around him.

Although he couldn't see the rest of his squad from this location, judging by the rain of fire being brought against him, and the lack of calls for a medic, he figured the others must have found adequate cover from the big blaster's deadly bolts, aided by their operator's deadly aim, continued in a near-continuous stream of destruction around him as he pressed his body as far into the scorched ground beneath him... its lethal lights daring him to expose himself.

Unless he could find a way through, his squad would fail the exercise. For a clone, failure was not an option.

He remained hunkered down in partially hidden blast crater, waiting for a chance to make a run for it. Frantically, his mind raced to find any previously unseen options. His only shot, as he saw it, was to catch the shooters while they reloaded.

But these were Mandalorians doing the shooting, not droids. That meant their aim was deadly... as was their guile.

Trey had to remain wary of being snared by one of the willy veteran soldier's traps. He was keenly aware that any miscues on their part were more likely to be intentionally used as bait... to lure out their un-experienced enemies. "And," he thought with lessening enthusiasm, "they alternated their reloads as efficiently as they combined their firepower." It would take an unlikely miscue on their part for any opening in their defenses to appear.

Then suddenly, somehow, Trey knew that just such a mistake was about to take place.

He didn't know how he knew, but he did. He simply felt it, just like always. It was those feelings that set him apart from his brothers. It was what made him so 'different'.

Pushing aside the misgivings of his talents, or curses, he readied himself for the moment to come. He didn't have long to wait. Only a few heartbeats later, it happened... a momentarily chorused lapse of sound came from the repeaters' positions. Although Sgt. Skiratas' favored shattergun didn't make any noise when fired, Trey knew it was empty, too.

He'd remembered from his flash-training that the maximum capacity for the alien weapon was 20-rounds. So, he'd been counting the shots from it. Number 20 had just ricocheted off the ground beside him, only a few nerve-wrecking inches away.

His premonition was right, they DID make a crucial mistake in timing. Trey, however, wouldn't.

Without hesitation, he jumped to his feet and charged headlong into the expanse of open ground that separated him from his objective, snapping a sim-grenade from its webbing on his chest-plate as he ran.

The distance closed in eerie silence, his movement seemed to be in slow-motion yet, at the same time, blurred past him too quickly for him register. Before he knew it, he was at to the bottom of the escarpment his instructor was using for elevated position. Using a technique called a 'crow-hop', named after some avian species from an unknown rim-world, Trey heaved the small detonator in his hand into a high arc, aimed to land right on top of their enemies' lofted position.

Then, just before the simulated explosives were timed to erupt.. klaxtons suddenly blared, and bright florescent lights flooded the chamber.

"Endex, Endex, Endex! Cease all training exercises!", came a booming voice that drowned-out all other sounds on the training course. "Clone units numbered CT-3301 through CT-9999 are ordered to report to their pre-assigned Unit Staging Areas! All other combat-ready units will return to their berthing areas and prepare for pre-deployment inspection. Training Sergeants are requested to meet in Prime Minister Lama Su's office for briefing."

The sudden interruption brought Trey to a staggered halt, as it did all the clones on the training course. Some looked around in bewilderment, others ran for the exits to comply with the unusual orders issued over the facility-wide announcement system. This had never happened before, and many, like Trey, didn't know what it meant.

But then, most, simply obeyed orders... exactly as they had been trained to do.

Trey made his way through the masses of hardened armored bodies to regroup with his squad. Whatever was going on, they would need to be together when they faced it. Even though the exercise, and thus the immediate danger, was over, Trey was still filled with the same sense of anticipation... as if the real danger was yet to come.

Curious looks donned the faces of some clones who had removed their helms, the exercise being declared over. Smatterings of dumbfounded questions and equally unsure answers rippled through the crowd. Repeated versions of "what's going on?" and "I dunno.. what about you 'vode?" mingled with the sounds of heavy breathing and unclasping armor. Then one of the trainers... the very one who had been firing at them moments ago with the sniper rifle... called out, "Attention!"

In unison, every clone in the room snapped to... eyes and ears fully focused on whatever orders they were about to receive.

"Troopers are to proceed to parade grounds as instructed." He gazed around, as if looking for a specific clone, or maybe counting them. A moment later he shouted, "Specified non-clone personnel are to report to the Armory. Now, shift it, meat-cans. Move out!" The Mandalorians rough voice carried the commands to the rafters of the training hall, but for all its vigor, supplied no other information.

Before Trey could get within speaking range to put forth any inquiries, another Mando, this one in gold-colored armor... (and accompanied by a foul-smelling, six-legged showcase of teeth- also golden in color, due to the short, wiry fuzz that covered its over-wrinkled skin); entered and announced in a martial tone, "Muster with your unit leaders on the parade ground in 10 clicks. Dismissed!"

His desire for information unsatisfied, Trey made his way to rejoin his squad. Without a word spoken, they seamlessly filed in as one amongst the throngs of troopers marching in tandem to the nearest exit.

As he fell-in with his fellow troopers, he wondered why the intense feelings of danger remained. 'Endex' had been called, the exercise was over... he should have felt safer now. But he didn't.

The same unknown sense that warned to him when to keep his head down or to make a run for it during combat training, continued its' grasp on the back of his mind. Far from fading away, as it usually did... if anything, it was getting worse.

As if feeling the gaping maw of his unknown destiny swinging open to swallow him whole, Trey continued on... sudden confusion now warring with long-held fears.

...


	3. Chapter 3

**"No, it is not important to us whether the clone units think, or feel… or think about what they may feel. Our sole aim is to ensure our guaranteed standards of quality production. So, if any unit displays evidence of un-programmed or disruptive behavior, it is isolated from the others and reconditioned to meet specifications. If reconditioning is deemed unsuccessful... we simply destroy it. I am quite curious at your obvious dismay of this process, Master Jedi. I was given to understand that your Order operates in much the same way when diposing of unsatisfactory products. Here, they are labeled as 'defectives', and destroyed efficienctly. The Jedi prefer to label your defective units as 'Sith', and take action to destroy them with equal efficiency... do you not? I would say the only real difference is our preferred methods of disposal. Seeing as how we Kaminoans aren't most commonly known for carrying our incinerators on our belts… as you Jedi are of displaying your lightsabers... that perhaps it is _your_ ways that are the more... how did you put it again, oh yes..._'un-civilized'_." _- Lama Su, Kaminoan Prime Minister… having a 'philosophical discussion' with Obi-Wan Kenobi_**

...

**Chap3**

"**I'm** telling you, this it _IT_!" The excitement in Quay's voice came through clearly over the sqaud's comm channel. Oni, their sergeant, reached over and cuffed the squads' chatterbox on the back of his head. "Oh, yeah?", he ribbed. "So now we've got _two_ troopers who can see the future, eh?", referencing the usual jibe about Trey's 'nose for trouble'.

Almost on-cue, Duece dutifully chimed in, backing up Oni as usual. "Yeah... watch it, Quay. The last thing we need is for you to start acting spooky, too."

Although they all had been saved more than once by Trey's intuition, Duece had never seemed comfortable with it. Not jealous, really, but certainly put-off by being subject to a talent he didn't understand. "C'mon, Duece..." Quay teased. "I know you're itching to let loose some live ordinance!"

Duece patted his DC-15 lovingly. It was all the agreement he needed to express. "You know me so well, ner vod." The grim smile that laced his voice told of his hopes that soon a real enemy would get to know him that well, too.

Quay slapped his trigger-happy pod-mate's armor, satisfied he was ready for action. Oni tried to restrain their runaway energy. "Since you two are so jumpy to get shot at, I'll be sure to send you charging the first repeater nest we find. Deal?" Undeterred, Quay turned for reinforcement from his closest friend.

"Okay, Trey... out with it. What's your nose telling you? Are we finally going into battle?"

Trey didn't know what to say. The talk of his special skill unnerved him even more than it did Duece. "He isn't the one that would be taken away for it," Trey thought to himself. Outwardly, he settled for responding with a non-commital shrug.

Without someone to return his chatter, Quay gave in to patiently awaiting orders with a shake of his helm. "Fine. We'll find out soon enough, I guess."

As Trey obediently followed the figures in front of him, his inklings of dis-ease grew. Despite his silence on the subject to Quay, the feeling he was walking straight into terrible danger was on the edge of becoming unbearable. Something was indeed about to happen... something _BIG_. His whole body nearly tingled with the sense of it. What he needed was 'intel'… information. "Improper intel is like fighting blind," the old saying went. Surely, it was the uncertainty of his current situation that had to be fueling his panic. If he could get an idea of what lay ahead, he hoped... his fears could be allayed. Hopefully, before they ran completely wild... and dragged him along with them.

Keying his external comm-mic with a few quick blinks at the icon on his helmets HUD, Trey stepped closer to the soldier walking ahead of him, intent on finding any information to alay his fear. Reaching out casually, he tapped his 'brother' on the back of his torso-plate. The un-helmeted clone turned back to look at him without breaking stride, his dark eyebrow raised in question.

It was only then that Trey noticed the blue markings on his armor. A Lieutenant... Great.

"You need something, Private?"

Well, maybe it _was_ a good thing. An officer might know what this was all about. It seemed like a logical idea. However, Trey was stopped short of asking anything.

His fear whispered with urgent warning, "Maybe he _does_ know… about _YOU_!"

The manic thought made his mouth go dry. But, now he had to say something. He had already addressed an officer. To act strangely now would surely help make his nightmares come to fruition.

"Uh... Excuse me, sir…" he started awkwardly. "I was just… uh…wondering… um," He needed to come up with something, anything… quick. He could see the suspicion growing in his superior's eyes and growning frown. "Uh," he pronounced with sudden confidence, "if my squad needed any special kit for this next exercise?"

It turned not to be that bad of a question, after all. Using the term 'exercise' inferred, he hoped, that he didn't think anything was amiss... just curious. It also may help him in gauging whether this was an event that only the officers knew was coming. And the bit about 'kit'… well, all troopers knew that their clone-officers believed in their soldiers being prepared.

The unknown Lieutenant's face dissolved into a more genuine-looking frown, as he replied, "No, I don't. But I imagine if we all just follow orders, we'll find out soon enough." By his sour expression, Trey figured he probably didn't have any better ideas behind their current situation than he did... and he didn't particularly like it, either. Unwilling to raise the ire of the officer, Trey simply nodded and said, "Yessir". Then eased back to walk again amongst his own unit.

While he listened to his squad-mates... his pod-mates, all... banter over what they thought the unusual muster was about, Trey stayed largely out of the conversation. Now, suddenly felling like an interloper for some reason. As if he were tapping into enemy comms, not joining-in with his brothers'. Putting in a non-committal grunt once in a while to keep his brothers attention focused away from him, Trey attempted internally to get a grasp on the fluid emotions running through him.

With frantic bursts of unthinkable ideas flitting through his brain, he simply tried to remain moving forward... unnoticed. Desperation gave bloom to plans that might grant him escape, but nothing rational came forth. So, into the vacuum crept thoughts that Trey knew could only have been spawned by his many, frequent nightmares. They whispered to him of things that made him afraid to close his eyes, even to blink. Panic was making his breaths come in short and hurried bursts. He tried to force himself to relax, to not over-react.

"This could all be a drill," he told himself, trying to regain his composure. "Just because it's a sudden departure from the normal, regimented schedule doesn't mean anything is wrong." But he just couldn't convince himself that everything was normal. His 'special-sense' kept telling him, in ever louder tones, that tragedy loomed. Again... Fear found its voice inside his head.

"Quay was right... this is _it_," it said to him. "That's what all this is about... they've found you out."

The specter of deeply ingrained terrors raced through him, stripping away at the calm facade he struggled to present, even under the relative safety of his helmet. Blitzed by fear unlike any he had ever felt, the forecast of inevitable doom gave credence to his already overwhelming sense of dread. Trey's body began to tremble uncontrollably, as he fought to maintain control of his mind.

"This is where they single you out and send you for 'reconditioning'..." it said, urging him to act. "You have to get away, _NOW_!"

Soon, unthinkable plans sounded more reasonable.

"I could steal another clone's armor…" his mind seized upon, "pretend to be him. The Kaminoans wouldn't be able to tell us apart… not before..." The idea was quickly dismissed. Even if it did work, highly unlikely as he realized the plan to be... it would mean sending some other poor clone to his doom.

"No," Trey thought, "I couldn't do that to a brother." Images of some unknown trooper being dragged away to be disposed of were more than enough to dissuade any further contemplation. There had to be another way out of this. Without realizing he was even doing it, his gloved finger slowly began taping the triggering stud on his Decee. With a start, he caught himself actually wondering if he could shoot his way free and escape.

"But who," a rational portion of his mind asked, "would I be willing to shoot my way through... even if freedom was possible?"  
>His brothers?<br>His _vode_... ?  
>The thought was madness, born of desperation. Trey knew deeper than any fear that killing another clone was something he was incapable of doing. And besides, where could he escape to? There was nowhere to go in this enclosed world, he reminded himself. Even if he could get out of the facility, the entire planet was covered with water. Gills and fins had not been a part of his genetically-manipulated blueprint. No, there was no way out of here. Not for him.<p>

Then, the ultimate plan of escape... and of insanity: Let _them_ shoot _him_.

He'd never before entertained the notion suicide. Although there had been latrine-rumors that some clones had…and did. Those were just rumors, though. In the carefully monitored and administered world of the clones, very little 'classified intel' (as loose-talk was commonly called jokingly), was ever found to be true. But still, his mind walked that frightening path a bit farther.

"It may be better than 'reconditioning'", he heard himself whisper.

Fear that he may have been overheard flooded his veins with adrenaline. Sweat formed all over his body, until his eyes thankfully found the icon in his helmet's HUD that told him his mic was muted. Just as quickly as panic had seized him, relief washed over him like a cool stream. He hadn't slipped. "Not yet, anyway," he said glumly.

Just as Trey began to think he could at last relax, that he could believe for the moment this unusual formation-call was only that... unusual... his memory replayed to him the un-overheard words he had uttered. The cool mental-waters caressing him instantly froze into the icy hold of terror. This new horror was nothing like those he had grown accustomed to being raised here, in this factory of death. This unfamiliar fear was of himself.

Shakily, Trey continued to march forward, looking around frantically, desperately, pathetically... for any signs that this might still just be some drill. Any sign of salvation.

His eyes eventually went up to the viewing platform that overlooked the massive, pearly white ceilinged cavern. There, the gracefully long-necked creatures whom would be performing the necessary task of making him more conforming, looked down with scrutinizing precision. Seeing the cold, yet oddly tranquil, eyes studying him more like a laboratory experiment than a living, thinking, feeling being; only gave credence to the paranoia that now consumed him.

Despair whispered to him, seductively selling him on the only real choice it said he had left. But doing _that_ just wasn't in him.

He could sacrifice his life to save another, and would… especially at that moment. But he couldn't willingly do himself in any more than he could harm another clone. Besides... if he could, he wondered, wouldn't he have already? Not liking where those questions might lead him, he resolutely pushed all thoughts of it aside… along with all plans for escape or salvation.

All hope was suppressed, as well.

As he entered the vast parade ground area, his tortured mind tried to resign itself to the unfavorable fate he was sure to come. Perhaps he needed to be reconditioned, he thought. "Perhaps then," he whispered to himself, "I won't be so different from my brothers." Being more like them was usually a comforting thought, but right then, thinking it didn't make him feel any better. It made him feel... '_other_'.

Reaching his position in the formation, Trey stood in his assigned place in unmoving, uniformed silence, being slowly surrounded by masses of his mirror images. Only this time, instead of being comforted by presences of his brothers, or even relieved by the relative anonymity of being just another clone, Trey suddenly felt surrounded. The sense of dread within him became overwhelming as one by one, other armored figures fell-in to their positions within the formation. He saw them now as individual pieces of a white-plastoid prison being dropped into place, sealing him to his doom.

He felt inside the cage-door slam shut, as the last stragglers rushed to fill the gaps any tardiness had left. His heart sank, as nausea rose with him. Unable to move, unable to call for help, unable to withstand the terrible voice inside him screaming "_RUN!_"... the last crumbling walls within him began to tumble down, leaving him raw and exposed to emotions and thoughts he knew he could no longer control.

His contemplation of self-termination flew in the face of he everything he was designed ,and trained, to do. To survive. It was all the proof that he, and more importantly, the Kaminoans, that CT-3033 had performed below specifications. He suddenly understood exactly what was happening to him... WHY he was so 'different' from his brothers.

Trey, CT-3033… _is_ 'Defective'.

The realization destroyed any vestiges of hope that remained hidden away deep inside of him. He was suddenly dizzy. Bile rose in his throat, burning its way up from his churning gut, to fill his mouth with its acidic taste. He felt as if the entire universe were closing in around him, like he was falling down into a deep, dark hole. Everything that used to be his reality, was now a shrinking point of light that sped further and further away from him... consumed by the growing darkness of his malfunctioning mind.

Now he knew why he was 'different' from his pod-mates. He simply wasn't up-to-specs, just as he'd long feared.

He knew now that every group of clones, or 'pod', didn't have one like him, as he had often hoped. Now, somehow... the Kaminoans had found him out. He must have failed some unknown test... somehow. The idea that he was not worthy of existence made him feel unhealthy... like a cancerous cell hidden inside an otherwise fully-functioning organ. What he should do, he thought, was turn himself over to the nearest Kaminoan technician. Let them 'fix' him... 'recondition' him... 'cleanse' him.

Trey simply continued to stand there in silent obedience like the good soldier he pretended to be. A lone example of imperfection... a vivid blemish amongst the magnificently-polished ranks of 'full-spec' clone troopers, waiting to be ordered to step forward and be displayed as unworthy before everyone he'd ever known and cared about.

He imagined the looks of disgust and contempt that would be worn upon every identical face, even Quay's. Then, as his nightmares had often shown, he would be taken away... in disgrace... to be 'reconditioned'. Glancing sideways at his beloved pod-mates standing in formation all around him, he wondered if he would even remember them after... 'it'. Once they knew he was defective, he thought sadly, they probably wouldn't _want_ to remember CT-3033. He couldn't blame them if they didn't. By not meeting up to performance standards, he had failed them. Another unfamiliar emotion, this one far beyond the soul-crushing depths of any previous fears, swallowed him whole and shaded grey the dim light of whatever remained within him that had once been 'Trey'... eclipsing him into its creeping darkness. All that was left of him stood trembling, frightened, and... ashamed. For the first time in his intentionally short life, he left... alone.

Warm, wet tears crept slowly down his face.

All the while, as if to mock his failings, over the battalion comm frequency of his helmet came the familiar chorus of clones' voices ringing-out with pride the beginning verses of "Vode An"... the Mandalorian 'Song of Brotherhood'.

...


End file.
